Fragility
by exceptions and expectations
Summary: I probably should have learnt the first time around that if you don't tell someone how much they mean to you, they'll go away. But I didn't because I didn't think it happen to me again. I was wrong. I've lost him. Dimitri.


Set in Minehead, England. Google it if you don't know it.

Fragility

_It's always darkest before the storm – Florence and the machine, Shake it off_

* * *

><p><em>Rose<em>

I can hear the waves from my bedroom. I can hear the giggles of happy holiday makers from my bedroom, too. I can hear the happiness and I wish it would radiate into me. I wish it could transform me into some happy teenage girl. Instead, I am Rose Hathaway. I am Rose, and I have A Way.

It's three a.m., and I am distinctly awake. I can't help but think of every event that has led me to this point: a seventeen-year-old girl who is too fucked up to be normal. I think of what I've learnt in the last four hours. I think of how, when I was fifteen, Janine left me in the freezing cold with no house to key so she could go see her lover. Who just happens to be my father?

Bitch.

I want to run downstairs and scream at her. But I can't. I am too emotionally drained from the last conversation I had with her. Plus, she's not even home.

I am attuned to every noise this stupid little house makes. I'm huddled in my duvet, listening. I like listening. I like the thrill of some else's words pouring into me. Maybe I should become a therapist.

Or at least go see one.

Yeah, I should probably go see a therapist.

I don't want to see a therapist. I want to run away.

Maybe I should do that instead.

.

.

.

I wake up at two p.m.

I feel deeply ashamed because now it means Janine probably stayed home to make sure I'm OK after last night. Well, fuck her.

Of course I am not fucking 'OK'. I am anything but OK. But, you know, that's fine. I've always been like this. Calling my reception teachers fascist bastards is not 'OK' behaviour for a five-years-old. Wanna know whose fault it is?

My bloody mother's.

I grab a pair of jeans from the floor and a hoodie that Janine got me for Christmas. It's an expensive that I wear the fuck out of because I feel guilty that I have nice clothing when some girls my age don't. I brush my hair and then forget about it; I just leave it down, hanging past my tits in its own way that neither curly nor wavy. It's something caught disastrously between the two.

I storm out and I walk into town on my own. It's only five minutes because Minehead is tiny. It's just a beach with a holiday resort and a few chain stores. It has a Tesco, so I guess there's a light at the end of every tunnel.

I walk along the path, not exactly going into any particular shops, just walking. It's the same every little town you see. It's all very repetitive.

I see a boy from school, Jesse. He waves. I don't wave back. He doesn't seem too disenheartened as he's with a girl with big tits. He's holding her hand and she seems very well endowed with him. As I walk past them, I see her eyes slip to me, and a small smile curves her lips. It's a warm smile; very genuine. I decide I like this girl with good boobs.

I go to my favourite little café because I haven't eaten in a while. It's more of an obligation than a need, really. I have to eat or I'll die, even though lately I've lost my appetite. Of course no one but Lissa's noticed. Lissa's too wrapped up in Christian to care too much anyway.

I just walk aimlessly before I end up at the beach. It's a pretty beach with nothing but sand and sea and the edge of Wales in the distance. I sit on the sand I try not to cry. I'm freezing cold and I hug my knees to my chest. I feel so alone, out here at seven o'clock in the evening. This time last week I was already at Lissa's, my system filled with the sweetly numbing sensation of alcohol. But now I'm sitting in the dark listening to the waves and sounds of people who are helplessly happy.

I think I fall asleep because I wake up with sand on my mouth.

There's a hand in mine, attached firmly. It's male; I can feel the heat and the roughness. I'm still on the beach and it's still night time.

I pretend to be asleep still because I don't want to face going home to Janine crying her eyes out about how I make her worry for the fucking sake of it.

The man says, "I know you're not asleep."

And I laugh. "That's an interesting story," I tell him, "such a great plot line, too." I say this because it's my default setting when things go wrong and all I want to do is cry. I do it because I know that if I say something notable I'll blurt out my life story. I have my guards and they have to be up. My walls are cemented strongly. You can't break through them. I don't want anyone to. I like being alone; it's better that way, less baggage when you go to say goodbye.

"Well, I strive to be an achieved author one day."

We precede full speed ahead into silence.

The sand is wet against my cheek and I hear someone comment on how people should be more like me and the man holding my hand. I laugh and so does the man. I think it puts us into some sort of friendship. But I don't know, I've only just met him.

"Why are you holding my hand? Wait – who are you?" I ask, deciding it's more important. I don't care, it's more of an obligation, I suppose.

"I'm holding your hand so you wouldn't get raped. You're welcome. I'm Dimitri."

I don't offer any gratification because I didn't ask him to hold my hand. But I do tell him my name "I'm Rose."

.

.

.

"So you're from Russia?"

It's one a.m. and twenty-four hours ago I was screaming at my mother, telling her how all I do is try to be a good daughter. Now I'm on the beach talking to a twenty-four-year-old man from Russia. His arm is wrapped around my shoulder and I'm sure we look like a couple.

His hair is long – almost to his chin – and he has stubble that makes him look so manly. His is hideously good-looking. Even in the dark. He seems to belong on this beach, with the waves acting as a soundtrack. They sound amazing with his voice – a deep sound that makes my heart jump.

I can only smell his sweet sweat and after-shave, along with the salt from the sea. I want to stay with him, on this beach, in this little snapshot. It's desperation.

"I just said that," he comments.

"Sorry, it's a little late for my mind to come to terms with this."

Maybe I've said too much. Maybe I told him about last night. Maybe I told him about Mason. I told him about the guilt. I told him about Janine. He let me cry and now I feel like a tool; a complete tit.

Dimitri just laughs. "It's fine." His arm tightens around me. I feel safe for the first since Mason. "Yeah, I moved to England a year ago with my younger sister." He goes on to tell me that Viktoria had convinced him to move over here because she needed to get out of the suffocating memories of Baia. His other sisters and his mother were murdered. He tells me how it was with great reluctance he agreed.

"So why did you choose Minehead? It's pretty obscure, apart that eyesore." I point in the general direction of the holiday resort. It's big and pointedly ugly. I can see the outline of his jaw as he talks, telling me about Viktoria and her choice to move. I like not being able to see him properly. It makes me feel safer, like after we depart ways I can go back to hating my life in private and by myself. It's an anonymous feel.

We talk for hours. Sticking to light subjects, and jumping often.

I listen aptly, head tilted, my mind flitting from what time is it to why should this have to end.

I play with the sand and I am so cold. His fingers dig into my forearm and it feels weird. I kind of want him to let go. But I don't because without then coiled around me I am no longer shielded from loneliness. It will attack me, I know it.

It is six a.m. when we depart. He tells me that it was nice meeting me. I blush because I was asleep and he took pity for me. It took us up to this moment, though - this moment where we acknowledge we like each other's company and we exchange numbers in the futile hope we talk again. But I'm not as naïve as I once was. I _know_ we won't text or ring. I know that I will walk ten minutes home because while live next to the beach I live nearer to the barren harbour. I know I will wake up late and I will already have forgotten about this man. This man I know better than my best friend. Yet, I still only know his name. His story is half-baked because I don't know the meanings he put behind it. That's why this night means so much to me.

He sends me a smile as he heads, but I stay there, standing on my lonesome. My chest aches because emotions seem to be finding home within me lately. It's cold and suddenly a wind picks up. My hoodie seems too thin now.

I walk home, and I hope against all hopes that I see him again. But I know that the reality won't be daisies if I see him again. It will be awkwardness and regret. He will regret taking pity on a broken a girl with too much baggage. I will regret nothing.

* * *

><p><em>i like being just a little bit unfixed. and i like that you don't give a fuck<em>

_you can review if you want, in fact you can review even if you _don't_ want to. i need a laugh._


End file.
